The New World
by vesmolol - Vesa Hautaniemi
Summary: A short story based on the reveal trailer of XCOM2, written on the 6th of June 2015.


The New World

The young man made his way through the dark streets of Lower Providence. The buildings around him were unkempt and degraded. Dusty windows and eroded paintjobs were mirrored by cracks in the pavement under his feet. It was in stark contrast with the radiant glow of New Providence in the distance. The Megacity loomed over the human slums, its shining lights illuminating sleek skyscrapers and domes. All thanks to the Advent, and the Unification. A better tomorrow for all. He didn't believe it for a moment. Down here, there was _no_ tomorrow. No Future.

The man looked down at the scraped pamphlet in his hands once again. A gust of wind almost tore it from his fingers, sending street grit and torn posters scurrying across the sidewalks and avenues. Passing under one of the rare still-operating street lights, he regarded the message on the sepia-colored paper: _The Advent Administration is a lie, a false puppet created by those who would see mankind cease to exist as it has for thousands of generations! If you are a true son or daughter of Earth, seek us out. The emancipation of our Globe is underway!_ Behind the words, a hooded figure clad in green pointed a finger towards him. The sigil on his uniform was one the man had once caught a glimpse of on the news, before the Administration had cracked down and censored all reporting on the matter.

Stuffing the pamphlet inside his jacket, the man carried on. The evening winds were cold down here, and he lifted up his collar against its chilling bite. Despite the cold, his hazelnut eyes were determined. He was barely a man at all; a boy, only a few years into his twenties. He was the perfect age to apply for refuge at New Providence and start a wonderful new life under the protection of the Advent Administration: get a degree, settle down with a nice girl and live out his life alongside the Visitor. But all that had changed last night.

It had been a night like any other, the young man out drinking with his buddies, finding what little enjoyment they could in the bleak streets of Lower Providence. The night had stretched on far into the small hours before he had started the walk back to his lonely apartment. That's when he had seen the viper.

It was extremely rare for aliens to venture out into the human slums. They were at the top of the hierarchy, even if the Advent Administration did its best to try and blur the lines with their slurring propaganda of equality. Why would a being of such majestic power spend their time in this shithole of a city, surrounded by their inferiors? Why would they freely wander out into an environment in which they most definitely weren't welcome? Whatever the reason, there it had stood, its golden scales gleaming under the street lights, its black uniform indicating it was a member of the Guard. The creature had swooned and swayed under the lights, drunk on fermented Gorn milk or whatever disgusting substance it was these creatures consumed for pleasure. And on the ground before it was a human body, completely still with a river of dark blood slowly flowing through the cracks in the pavement.

The young man had stopped for a moment. It wasn't unheard of for things like this to happen. The Administration denied it all of course: alien on human violence rates were at such an all-time low it practically didn't happen anymore. Yet here this creature was, down in his city, having just killed another of his kind. Pulling his late father's folding knife from his pocket, the young man hadn't hesitated.

The viper must have been high on blood and alcohol, for it never knew what hit it. A quick stab in the back of the head, and the blade had slipped in-between the scales so very easily. The alien's hiss had been cut short as it fell to the ground, piling on top of its own victim.

The man breathed into his hands, rubbing them together for some much needed warmth. The nick in the webbing between his thumb and forefinger where his own blade had cut him last night ached, but only a little. Taking a right, he crossed the street and went into the alleyways between the old concrete buildings. The words on the pamphlet were a riddle. And one he knew the answer to. Not much knowledge remained of the Old World. The man had been just a child when the Unification happened: his first memory was that of a green backyard, the smell of freshly baked bread from inside mixing with the pungent odor of the cigarette his father was smoking. His mother had died before the Unification: all he could remember of her was the warmth of her embrace and the smell of the bread. His father had been taken away by the human police on the second year of the New World. Yet his books had stayed with the young man, and he had devoured them over and over again.

 _The emancipation of our Globe is underway!_ He took a left and there it was: a non-descript doorway in-between two abandoned office buildings. The name of the bar glowed in red neon lights above the doorway: The Lincoln. He had been here once during the bar rounds with his friends some months ago. This had to be the answer. Taking a deep breath, he pushed in through the heavy hardwood door. Its hinges creaked and warm light bathed the sidewalk.

The interior was homely: round tables of stained wood littered the lounge, with thick carpets of wool covering the cracked floorboards. The walls were brown, natural log; such a stark contrast to the shining white compounds of the Megacity. A long bar counter ran along the side of the room to his right. Only a few people were sitting at the tables this evening, under the light of the lamp above. It was a large globe of the Earth, spinning slowly on its chain, showering the room in gentle illumination.

The barkeep looked up as the man entered. He was a short and stout fellow: bald with a jagged scar running over his right temple. "What's your poison?" The bartender's rumbling greeting lit a spark of anxiety and nervousness in the young man's stomach. Taking a deep breath, he approached the counter and laid down the pamphlet. The moment of truth.

The bartender's eyes became distant as he regarded the worn piece of paper. Without a word, he took it in his callused hand and the poster disappeared under the counter. Looking the young man in the eye, he signaled towards the corner of the bar with his head. With that, the barkeep turned his attention back to the magazine he'd been thumbing through.

A booth stood in the back corner of the bar. It had room for four people, with high backrests and a notched hardwood table in-between the seats. The young man walked across the bar, feeling like the eyes of the world were on him. Glancing around, he realized no one was watching. The women closest to him were playing cards with a disinterested look on their faces. A lonely man with long hair and a haunted expression was chugging down a pint of lager, his table littered with several overturned shot glasses. Shaking his head, the man regained his composure. He was almost at the booth now. It looked empty. Had he misinterpreted the barkeep? No: there was definitely smoke rising from behind the backrest facing him.

The man laid eyes on a woman in her fifties. Her brunette hair had streaks of gray and white in it, her face wrinkled beyond her years. She held a fat cigar between her crooked, arthritis-ridden fingers. Yet despite it all, the young man could tell she was strong: her shoulders were wide and the simple black sweater didn't hang around her arms. Quite the opposite, he could see her biceps fill out the sleeves. Despite their age difference, he was certain she would easily best him in hand-to-hand.

But it was her eyes that gripped the young man. They were a faded green, cold and hard. The crevices around the woman's mouth tightened as she turned to look at him. Her stare drilled into his soul, stripping away his defenses and laying him bare before her. Without breaking eye contact, he sat down across from her. She took another slow drag from her cigar, silently evaluating him. It made the boy shiver.

"What're you here for?" The woman's voice was the crack of a supersonic bullet.

Straightening his back, the boy's fingers dug into his knees. "I want to fight." It sounded feeble in his ears, his voice a trembling whimper compared to the commanding authority of the woman before him.

A dry laugh filled the booth as the woman laid her cigar down on the ashtray. "How old were you when the Unification happened?"

"Four", the young man answered, stronger this time.

The grizzled woman shook her head and swatted him away with a dismissive wave. "What do you know? What could you possibly know about fighting, boy? Run back to your life. Go kiss a pretty girl, have a drink with your pals. Lap up the lies of the Advent and live out the rest of your days in peace. There's no place for you here."

The man's eyes flared with anger. He hadn't come all this way for this. He hadn't lived out his life with the words of his father's books, with the memory of a happier time tormenting him all of his days for _this_. "I know!" he snapped, and the woman's eyes narrowed in response, "I know I want to fight! I _need_ to fight. And I can't go back."

The old soldier eyed him up and down, contemplating. Picking up the cigar, she took another drag before speaking up again, "Do you have any skills?"

Hope sparked within the man. "I'm good with a blade", he said, producing the folding knife from his pocket. Flipping the blade out, he slammed it into the scraped surface of the hardwood table. "I killed one of the snakes with it."

The woman's laugh crackled dry in amusement. "And you'll have to kill a lot more before this is all over!" she boomed, smiling in approval as she looked from the knife to the man. Slowly, the glimmer in her eyes died and her smile receded. In a solemn voice, she told him, "There's no going back. No one will thank you for what you'll do. They'll call you a terrorist, the enemy, and worse. And not just the Advent. The regular folk too, they'll spit on your name and trample all over your legacy. They'll curse you to the lowest pits of Hell and rejoice when you die, cowering in a pool of your own piss and blood. You'll face the interrogation chambers, where the xeno will rip apart your mind and body, piece by piece until what you were no longer remains. Is this what you want?"

"Yes", the man answered without hesitation. The old woman brought the cigar to her withered lips once again, inhaling the acrid smokes. The silence stretched on for a moment, and the man spoke up, "My name is…"

He was cut off by the soldier waving her cigar around, sending spirals of smoke flying over the table. "I don't care", she dismissed him, "You're all dead meat anyway. Maybe if you last through the boot camp I'll be interested."

A feeling of exhilaration jumped inside the man. "Does that mean…?"

"Yes", the woman answered. "Welcome to the resistance." She rose to her feet, and the man followed. She offered him her hand and he grabbed onto it. Then, she spoke the Words.

The man didn't know the Words. But he understood them. They were powerful words, resonating deep within him. They were… a promise? No, not quite. A vow? Yes, that was it. A solemn oath given to Earth and its people. They were words to live by, words to pour your very heart and soul into until nothing else remained. They were words to take solace in as you drew your last breath for a free Earth.

Gripping the old soldier's hand hard, the man could feel tears stinging behind his eyes, chills running all over him. In a voice trembling with emotion, he repeated after the woman:

" _Vigilo Confido."_


End file.
